No Return

“What?” Danny said, alarmed.

Wes hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud.

“Up the slope. Behind the rock,” he yelled.

Not having to be told twice, Danny took off running for the questionable safety of the pinnacle.

Wes scrambled to follow, but slipped on the loose dirt and fell to his knees. The ground began to shake as the roar of the aircraft intensified. He looked back quickly and saw there was no way he was going to make it to shelter in time.

He was going to die.

He started to turn away, but a flash of light from the back of the jet stopped him. For half a second it seemed as if nothing had changed, then the nose of the aircraft inched upward a few feet, and the jet veered to the left, away from the pinnacle.

He saw me, Wes thought. He saw me and did something to miss me.

But whatever the pilot had done was only enough to change his path, not his fate. Wes watched as the plane began dropping lower and lower-its new target the emptiness south of the crew’s position.

Wes pushed himself up and began sprinting toward the crew’s vehicles. He’d only made it a dozen feet when-

Whomp.

He skidded to a stop, mesmerized as the plane plowed into the desert floor.

He had expected the jet to flip and roll, breaking into a million pieces seconds after it smashed into the ground. Instead, the multimillion-dollar aircraft barreled through the earth, throwing up dirt and plants and rocks, but remaining intact. Then, just before it stopped, it twisted sideways, enveloping itself in a cloud of dust.

Wes jerked out of his trance and raced the rest of the way to the green Ford Escape he’d been in charge of driving out to the location that morning.

As he started to drive off, he glanced back and saw some of the shoot crew running toward the other vehicle, a Toyota Highlander. Dione was in the lead and waving frantically for Wes to stop.

But stopping wasn’t an option. He jammed the accelerator to the floor and sped into the open desert.

2

With no road or path to follow, Wes pushed the Escape faster than he should, bouncing over dirt and rocks and avoiding what vegetation he could. Soon he was surrounded by sagebrush set ablaze by the crash.

Thump.

Sparks flew out from the side of the car as he smashed over a clump of burning brush.

Immediately he heard a rumble. The axle? Had he damaged it?

Just then a fighter streaked across the sky, a mere hundred feet above his roof.

Jerking back in surprise, Wes nearly swerved the truck into the gouge created by the crash. But he quickly regained control and shoved the accelerator back to the floor.

It took him four and a half minutes to get from the pinnacles to the plane. Four and a half minutes that felt like a year.

Slamming to a stop, he jumped out of the SUV and ran toward the aircraft. The fighter that had buzzed by moments before had been joined by another, both circling helplessly a few hundred feet above the wreck of their friend.

The dust cloud from the crash was still dissipating as Wes weaved around the small pockets of fire where the groundcover was burning.

The aircraft was pointed almost toward him, so he could see into the cockpit. The glass canopy was gone. He had no idea when that had happened, or where it was for that matter. It certainly had been in place when the plane had swept past him before it had hit the ground.

Wes looked around anxiously, thinking that maybe the pilot had been able to eject. But then he spotted a person still in the cockpit, slumped to the side, unmoving.

Unmoving didn’t mean dead, though.

Wes ran around the plane looking for the easiest way up. But the brush next to the aircraft was more densely packed, pushed together by the crash, and all of it on fire. He continued searching until he spotted a narrow gap.

I can make that, he thought.

Somewhere behind him doors opened, then slammed shut.

“Wes!” It was Dione. “Get back!”

He ignored her as he sprinted toward the gap, then leapt up onto the wing at the last second. But he landed hard, his knees slamming into metal and sending him sliding backward. Groaning, he clutched at the wing to keep from falling off. Once he’d stopped moving, he shoved himself to his feet and lurched toward the fuselage.

“Wes!” Dione yelled. “That thing could explode!”

Wes reached the fuselage, then shimmied down a lip that ran from the wing to the cockpit. He could see the back of the pilot’s head now, tilted to one side, still motionless.

He grabbed the back of the cockpit opening and threw himself forward, aiming his feet for the lip just outside the pilot area. But his toes barely touched the edge before slipping off. Immediately he clamped his hands tight to the rim of the cockpit to keep from falling to the ground. Below his dangling feet, he could feel heat from the burning brush.

“Wes!” a different voice-Anna, it sounded like-called out.

He heaved himself upward, scrambling with his legs until one of his feet found the lip. Ten seconds later he was exactly where he’d been trying to get, only now sporting a long scratch down the inside of his left arm.

He leaned into the cockpit and pressed two fingers against the man’s neck. A pulse. Strong.

“Can you hear me?” Wes said.

No response.

He quickly scanned the man’s dark green flight suit for any blood. When he saw none, he probed lightly down the man’s arm, across his ribs, then down his thighs.

He was pretty sure the pilot’s left leg was broken, and possibly two of the ribs. But there were no other obvious injuries.

“Hey,” he said again.

The pilot remained motionless.

He was about to give the man a shake when he noticed something that should have registered right away. The pilot was holding his helmet under his left arm.

Holding his helmet. No way he’d been flying like that.

“Hey,” Wes said, moving the man’s face side to side. “Hey, wake up!”

There was a moan, but nothing more.

“Come on, buddy. Wake up!”

This time the man’s head rolled forward, then slowly tilted up.

“Good, good,” Wes said. “We got to get you out of this thing.”

Wes grabbed the buckle of the harness holding the man to the chair and tried to pop it open, but it didn’t budge.

“Is there some kind of safety lock on this?” Wes asked.

The man moaned again. “See the ground … trying … it’s not … it’s not …”

Wes slapped the pilot’s face. “You’ve gotta wake up.” This time the man’s eyes blinked several times, then opened all the way. “I’m trying to get you out of here, but I can’t undo your harness. Help me. What am I doing wrong?”

The pilot jerked his head right, then left, his consciousness returning. He focused on Wes. “What happened?”

“You put your plane down in the middle of the desert,” Wes told him. “And if you help me, you’ll actually